


Patching Up

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky falls face-first through a window, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Nurses & Nursing, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:09:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: Summertime, and the living is… interrupted by an injured Bucky Barnes falling face-first through your window. You’re not a nurse yet, but you’ve still got a duty to take care of him. And oh, you do.





	Patching Up

**Author's Note:**

> Written from a prompt on tumblr—nursing student!reader x hot mess!Bucky, although it’s hard to tell how much of a mess he is when all I can focus on is the ‘hot’ part. Thanks for reading & I hope you enjoy!

It’s stifling out. May shouldn’t be this hot. Shouldn’t be this cold, either—the weather is flip-flopping more than the primary polls, fifty one day and eighty the next. You’d had to pull your pea coat out from under your bed. Silly you for thinking spring had finally settled in.

Nope.

You’ve got every window in your apartment wide open, but the evening air is slow to filter in. If you weren’t a broke student, you’d turn on your AC. Not that you’ve even gotten around to putting the window units in yet. If only you could’ve gone with your roommate to her family’s beach home on the cape, but no, you’ve got your work at the school clinic. Not to mention a distinct lack of a nice enough bathing suit.

So instead of fun in the sun, you’re overworked and overheated, alone and surly. At least school’s done for the spring, and you don’t have to worry about summer classes now that you’ve finally passed A&P.

Thank goodness.

You fiddle with your phone as you lie spread-eagled on your bed, the oscillating fan on your dresser trailing up and down your body. It’s nice. You’ve just got on a cami and boy shorts as you wait for the room to cool enough for you to sleep; then you can crawl under your blanket and escape into a dream where, hopefully, you’ll be rich and famous and done with nursing school.

As if.

Well, at least there’s summer.

Summer with its heat and its smells and… the banging outside? You sit up slowly, confused. It’s nine-thirty PM, not AM. But it sounds like garbage trucks are rattling around the trash cans downstairs. A few steps to your open window, and you yelp, careening backwards as the screen rips and an unpleasantly familiar face topples inside.

“What the fuck!”

Bucky Barnes, sort-of superhero, groans into your scuffed wooden floor. His legs are bent, shoes halfway up your wall, shiny stains littering his black uniform. A metallic scent floods your senses; you wrinkle your nose before realization sets in.

It’s _blood_.

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

He lies there for what feels like forever before you can move.

He’s bleeding. You’re a nurse. Almost, anyway. It’s your job—your duty—to help.

Regardless of whether or not the reports of him going renegade are true.

 

—

 

The Winter Soldier is a good patient, all things considered. Follows instructions well, doesn’t mouth back, keeps his hands to himself. Questions pile in your mind, but you don’t have the courage to voice them until he’s sitting on the lip of your tub and you’re standing between his spread legs to bandage a gash on his forehead.

“What happened to you?” you ask quietly.

He hums. “I was wondering when you’d ask.” He winces as you dab at the cut with a damp washcloth, wiping the dried blood away. “HYDRA unit infiltrated SHIELD. Thought it’d be clever to frame me for something. Then they caught wind of my next assignment and ambushed me on the way back to the safe house.” He peers up into your face long enough for you to notice.

You look down at him, eyebrows raised.

He’s studying you closely, his blue eyes solemn and intense. For the first time, you realize just how _vulnerable_ you are. A stranger in your bathroom, a bloody one at that. And a _dangerous_ one, with far more muscle than you'll ever have. You should shiver, should be afraid—but you’re not.

He’s been staring at you for far too long.

“What?” you finally ask.

“My safe house is, uh, near here,” he says vaguely. “I…” He trails off, eyes shifting, and it clicks.

“You know I’m a nurse?”

He nods once, sharply.

You ought to be terrified now. Stalker? Spy? Assassin for sure. But all you can register is how _sheepish_ he looks, unable to meet your eyes as you tape a bandage over his last cut. A man like this knows things whether he wants to or not. It’s clear he knows he _shouldn’t_ know, and that he feels bad about it.

Well, no need to rub it in.

“Well, I’m glad I could help,” you tell him lightly. You step back, observe your handiwork. Not bad, considering your dim bathroom with its exposed pipes and one bulb blown out is hardly a sterile exam room. Or emergency room. Or… much of anything really. At least his face is clean. A nice face, a good face, especially with the light flush across his cheeks.

He blinks up at you. “Are ya?”

“I mean, it was either help you or let you bleed out on my bedroom floor.”

“Coulda called the cops,” he says. He prods his fingers against his ribs with a frown.

“Coulda. You want me to look at that?”

A nod.

You drop to your knees between his legs and glance up at him, checking. He swallows, hard. But he nods again. His tac vest and jacket are already piled in the tub, and he pulls his black undershirt up to his pecs with a wince.

Oh.

_Oh._

You blink. You really have to replace that busted bulb, because how the hell is _this_ a surprise? There’s a blooming bruise on his side, but you barely notice it because oh my _god_ is he ripped. Abs, Adonis belt, a trail of hair leading down, down, down—

He clears his throat.

You tear your eyes away, face burning. “I—I’m sorry,” you stammer. Oh god. All of a sudden, you’re all too aware of just how utterly fucked up the whole situation is. Not only is there a goddamn half-shirtless superhero in your bathroom, but here you are, kneeling between his legs in nothing but a camisole and booty shorts and there’s a flush on your face and your hands are itching to _touch_ and meanwhile he’s got bruised ribs and—

A cool finger slides under your lax chin. Your eyes snap back to Bucky’s face, breath catching in your throat. His eyes aren’t quite so blue anymore; his cheeks aren’t quite so pale. He’s let go of his shirt, but it’s caught around his chest. You try _very_ hard to keep your eyes on his face. The prickle of a flush spreads down from your cheeks to your neck, your chest, lower…

“Think you got a good enough look?” he asks huskily. There’s a glint in his eye, just smug enough to tick you off. You shake his hand off your face and duck your head to actually examine his ribs. If you press harder than you need to—well, that’s what he gets for not just going to a hospital.

“It’s just a bruise,” you announce. You scoot back and glare up at him as you climb to your feet. “Try not to get hit there again before you can rest, okay?”

He stands, slower than you. You glance at the bathroom door, but he doesn’t go.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even tug his shirt back into place. Just stands there, abs on full display and that bruise, that damn bruise. It’s blue, purpling at points and nearly green at others. How is it so advanced so fast? It must be whatever’s got his heart beating that fast, and his muscles so perfectly chiseled, and, and, and.

Your lips are dry. Your hands itch to touch the bruise again, to check it—the blood had been fresh out of his cuts, but this bruise looks days old.

“Did all this happen _today?_ ” you ask.

He blinks. Nods. A little smile lifts the corner of his mouth as he pulls his shirt back into place, but it’s not smug like his earlier smirk had been. More… fond. Like he’s known you for years, and you’re all he ever wants to smile at again.

“I knew you were smart,” he murmurs.

Your eyes widen. Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips. “What—what do you mean?”

“I see you studying,” he says. “You keep your shades open.” He tucks his hair behind his ear, face pink again. “I can see from my kitchen window. You—it’s hard not to watch you work. Better’n just staring at the dishes.”

A giggle falls from your lips. “Are you saying I’m a dish?”

“I—” He blinks. Stares. Then he laughs, one loud burst of it before he’s hissing, hand flying to his ribs again. You rush forward the step and a half to check on them yourself, your hand brushing his as you feel those wonderful muscles under your fingers.

“It’s alright,” you tell him. You glance as far up as his mouth and back to his chest, but then his finger slides back under your chin.

This time, you don’t bat him away.

You let him lift your face until you have no choice but to meet his gaze. It’s _sweltering_ , and it’s not just the lack of air conditioning or two people standing in a tiny windowless bathroom or the absolute stillness of the air. It’s the touch of that metal hand on your chin, his chest practically brushing against yours, the prickling of a flush that’s going far past the neckline of your cami. It’s his mouth, pink and plush, surrounded by the shadow of his scruffy beard. It’s his eyes, dark like the sea; you could drown in them, if you wanted.

And oh, you _want_.

His eyes flit across your face, settle on your lips. He doesn’t move, just waits, breathing shallow and pupils dilating as you watch.

He’s waited long enough.

You rise up on tiptoe, slide a hand into his hair, and pull his mouth to yours. And oh, it’s _beautiful_.

His lips are soft, just as plush as they look. Warm, dry, just enough give. And he tastes like every sweet thing you’ve ever denied yourself, like rich chocolate and fresh mint and something secret you wouldn’t know how to ask for if you tried. And here you are, getting it anyway.

Bucky is tentative at first, barely moving, but then you press your whole body against him and he _groans_ into your mouth. His other arm circles your waist and pulls you even closer, his belt digging into your stomach and his pants rough against your bare legs. But you don’t care. All you care about are those lips searing yours, the hand kneading the skin of your hip through your camisole, the metal hand winding its way around your neck. And then there’s the way his chest drags against yours, the way your shirt bunches around your waist, baring more skin to the air, to his touch.

Your calves start to burn from standing on tiptoe for so long, and you drop back down to your heels, pulling him with you, your back arched as he bends just enough. God, that this moment never ends.

But he breaks the kiss, panting. You bite back a whine as he presses his forehead to yours, his eyes squeezed shut.

“God,” he rasps, “is this real?”

A pinch of his side—the unbruised one. He twitches, but doesn’t pull away. You smile, just able to make out the curve of his cheek as he does as well.

“If not, then we’re _both_ dreaming,” you say.

“Well, here’s to never waking up.”

 

* * *

 

 

How you end up in your room is a mystery. All you know is that he’s kissing you, and then you’re on your back on your bed, breathless as he peels his shirt off, kicks his pants away. For the first time, you see him in all—well, nearly all, he’s still got his boxer briefs on—his glory. The shining metal arm, only just as sculpted as the other; the pecs lightly dusted with hair and far more heavily with a flush; that trail of hair leading down, down, down.

Bucky crawls over you, muscles shifting so beautifully as he gazes down at you as worshipfully as if he were gazing up at God. You reach up to tuck his hair behind his ears, certain you look loopy from the warmth bubbling in your chest. There’s the heat thrumming through you, but that _warmth…_

It’s not the usual fire under your skin that you get from a one-night stand. It’s something else. Something softer.

Bucky’s legs bracket yours as he ducks his head to nuzzle that tender spot at the crook of your neck.

“Mm.”

You sigh, hands carding through his hair as he curls his left arm under your shoulder. The metal is smooth, strange to the touch—you’ve never been touched by moving metal before, and it’s thrilling, new.

He’s hovering over you, braced by his bent arms and legs. His breath is warm on your neck. You breathe him in, his strong clean scent, just touched with the smell of your soap and the leftover smell of blood, and beneath all that something unique and spicy and dark and _him_.

Enough foreplay.

You shift your legs until he’s between them. Bucky lifts his head, eyes fixed on yours as you hook your foot around his calf.

“You’re awful far away,” you tell him. A tug of his hair, and he half-collapses on top of you, face inches from yours. You’re drowning in those sea-dark eyes. For the first time, you can feel him hard against you, the heat from his body almost scalding. You swallow a moan, afraid to break whatever spell you’re under.

“How close do you want me?” he murmurs.

Your smile is slow, greedy. You slide your hands down his neck, his back—oh, you’re _dying_ to get a look at those beautiful muscles shifting under your hands—to squeeze his bum.

“How close can you get?”

His growl is positively feral. He covers you entirely, his weight delicious and heavy and stifling but you can’t get enough. His lips trail kisses down your neck, and the warmth blooming in your chest sparks, ignites, _burns_. Desire tingles in your chest, your arms, curling your fingers and toes as his clever mouth works at every sensitive spot along your throat. His teeth nip at your collarbone. You curve up against him, into him, head falling back as something primal surges through your veins. His hand slides under your top, peeling it away from your scorching skin, and then his mouth is on your breast.

“O- _oh!_ ”

Your hands fist in his hair as your eyes squeeze shut. You don’t realize you’re pulling hard until he groans, but it’s the kind of groan that makes your legs clench and a fresh rush of want pool at your core. His tongue rolls, laps, flicks, and you’re a babbling mess begging for you don’t even know what. Anything, whatever he wants, except to stop.

God, let it never stop.

He shifts to the other side, pays your other breast equal attention while completely ignoring how you’re grinding up against him, seeking desperately for the angle that will give you relief. But your pesky boyshorts and his pesky briefs are still in the way, and with his mouth glued to your chest, there’s no way you can win.

“ _Bucky_ ,” you whine. “Closer.”

You can feel him smile against your breast. One last kiss to that sensitive skin—you twitch, gasp, unable to help yourself—and then he’s closer, hips nudging your legs further apart as he finally, _finally_ , settles properly between them. Like he’s here to stay.

He brushes back the baby hairs at your temple as his eyes trace every line of your face. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.

“Ditto,” you whisper back. Your hands follow their trail down his back a little slower this time, mapping him out, testing the waters, watching the way his shoulder moves, until you reach his waistband. A glance back into his face, and his quick nod is all the confirmation either of you need.

Bucky yanks off your cami the rest of the way, you push down his briefs, somehow you get out of your boyshorts, and then there’s only him, burning you up from the outside in until he’s burning you up from the inside out.

Your mouth falls open with the stretch. You hadn’t even had a chance to look at him, to take him in, but he’s thick enough to have you scrambling at his back for purchase as he takes you apart in a single slow _push_.

He stills halfway in, his head dropping onto your shoulder as he struggles for breath. “Fuck, gorgeous. You—oh, _fuck_.”

You press a kiss to his hair. His chest rubs delicious friction against yours as he breathes those pretty broken breaths. Other than that, he’s immobile. Too long passes as he lays still, gathering himself. Impatient, you clench around him, tilting your hips up so he’s fully sheathed. You lower your hips, then raise them again, fucking up into him as he groans, one of his hands straying to his side before you remember the damn bruised ribs. You drop back onto the mattress, regret coiling in your gut as he pulls out and collapses onto his back beside you with a hiss.

Here you are, a nurse, and you’re hurting your patient. And screwing them, but that’s besides the point.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says woefully. He grabs your hand, tugs you into his arms. “God, I’m sorry—”

“Well, don’t take all the credit,” you tell him, forcing a smile. “I literally just told you to get rest.”

He snorts, hisses, buries his face in your hair. “If only I could move, god, the things I’d do to you…”

You sit up, suddenly inspired. _He_ can’t move, but you can. Besides, now you can see him.

And oh, what a pretty picture he makes. All those ridges of muscle, the sharp lines of his Adonis belt all the way down.

“The things _I’m_ gonna do to _you_ ,” you murmur. You sling a leg over his hips and settle on top of him, his hard length between your legs. Slow drags of your hips send fresh bursts through you, from your core to your chest to behind your eyes, tickling your brain. Your legs are shivering. You reach back and grab his thighs, afraid to touch his torso for fear of those damn ribs, but you’ve got to hold on _somewhere_ because there’s nothing left holding you up.

Your eyes flutter closed as you rub against him, and then a cool slick hand wraps around your right thigh. Your eyes snap open. You stare, breathless, hips still moving, as Bucky slides his hand higher, higher, until his thumb brushes against that one spot—

You’re a goner.

How you stay upright is a miracle. No muscle in your body is untouched; you’re a quivering mess atop him, breathy moans filling the air along with Bucky’s worshipful praises.

“So beautiful, so good, so sweet, god, you look so good, you smell so _sweet_ —”

His metal hand works you through it. There’s no sense left in your brain to process his words beyond _yes, good, he’s still here_ and _oh god bless him_ and _I want everything he can give me_.

By the time you’re back to your senses enough to unclamp your hands from his thighs, you realize you’ve slid back. Bucky’s stroking himself lazily, the evidence of your release easing his way as he gazes up at you like the moon’s hung in your eyes.

“I could watch you all day,” he says.

You lean down, careful to avoid touching his ribs, and frame his face in your hands. “I could _do_ this all day.” A kiss to those plush lips, and then you lift your hips, reach back, shift your weight, and—

“ _Oh fuck_ ,” you groan.

He fills you entirely this time, just the slightest tilt of his hips as you sit back up. His hands catch yours, propping you up as you gasp for breath. It’s a minute to adjust—more than you usually need, but he’s more than you usually… well, he’s _more_ than usual. You blink the stupor from your eyes, but the look on Bucky’s face is enough to keep you tongue-tied even if your body is aching for more.

Bucky’s face is awash with light, with longing and relish and so much beauty that you almost want to cry. You’ve never had such a beautiful man in your bed, let alone one who looks at you like you’re every good thing he’s ever seen.

You rock back onto him, unable to take your eyes away. In no universe, in no alternate timeline, could you look away from him. How could you? He’s the one with the stars in his eyes.

Every drag of your hips, every hitch of your breath or his, sends you careening along a knife’s point. There’s no escaping this, the feel of him, the contrast of his hands, one slick and sticky with your release, the other warm and dry. The broad expanse of his chest rising and falling rapidly, the grunts as he bucks his hips up just enough to nudge a secret spot inside you, his hiss when you pull a hand free to scissor your fingers between your legs, around him, the heel of your hand digging against that little bundle of nerves that’s about to blow.

You force your eyes to stay open as Bucky’s hips start to stutter, as he stretches you just that little bit more, as curses fall from his pretty pink lips. You want to watch him come undone—have to watch the power you have, for tonight and maybe, probably, never again. His eyes roll back, squeeze shut, and then his abs clench so _beautifully_ as he spills inside you.

A few more rolls of your hips, the desperate shove of his flesh fingers between your legs, a million pounds of pressure at your core, and you’re gone.

This time, you fall forward, convulsing around him, a soundless scream streaming out of you as you clench around him, pleasure radiating through you in endless waves, his other hand tilting your head so he can latch his lips to your throat. You can feel him there at your neck, between your legs, under you, _everywhere_.

Then, nothing.

For a full minute, you’re motionless, senseless, adrift in a cloud of after-effects and the slow, weighty realization that this is the closest you’ll ever get to heaven.

The first sensation you feel is Bucky’s hands stroking your back. Then, his lips against your temple. The smell of sex in the air, the sounds of nighttime in the city.

He seems to know when you’re back to yourself. “You alright, gorgeous?”

“Mm.” It’s true. You’re so blissed out you could cry. What gave him the right to be so beautiful, so worshipful? So good, so sweet? So kind?

You tuck your face into the crook of his neck and trace his bruised side.

“You?” you ask.

“Well,” Bucky says, “I can’t say you didn’t take good care of me.”

You smack his chest, laughing a little. He gathers you up in his arms and kisses you dizzy.

“You beautiful woman,” he murmurs against your lips. “I shoulda knocked on your door days ago.”

“Yes you shoulda.” You kiss him until spots dance behind your eyes. Settle back tucked against his side, your fingers tracing the beautiful lines of his torso. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

“Oh?” Bucky’s voice dips dangerously low.

You crane your neck to stare, lips parted.

“You know,” he says, almost casually, “I heal _really_ fast.”

“I noticed…”

“If you can wait—” he looks up, and you can just imagine the calculating he’s doing in his head— “thirty-five minutes, I _think_ I can get you more.”

“Well,” you say, throat suddenly _awfully_ dry, “like I said. I’ll take what I can get.” You reach up, trace his jaw. “In the meantime, do you mind if I just… hold you?”

Bucky’s eyes refasten on yours. There’s that warmth in your chest again, that star-light in his eyes, and you think that maybe you did drown in them tonight.

“I don’t mind,” he tells you. He pulls you back into his arms, one of your legs draped over his. He kisses your forehead, traces your cheek. “I don’t mind.”


End file.
